


Joan's Cooking

by 14winters



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Comfort Food, Found Family, Gen, Gift Giving, no actual severed limbs featured, reference to severed limbs in chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-08 02:19:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10375662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14winters/pseuds/14winters
Summary: A collection of ficlets about Joan and food.





	1. Bee Cookies

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose it all started with [ this headcanon](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/156865199853/joan-watson-headcanon-of-the-day-12) I originally wrote back in November 2016. I love the idea of Joan cooking and baking for those she loves, so much so I keep writing about it. I also love feeding people I love, so I suppose this is me projecting onto Joan/seeing something in common with Joan.

Joan likes cooking. She treats it like another case, looking at recipes like they’re science experiments, isn’t super adventurous with them, just follows directions.

But baking is another matter. Baking Joan takes _seriously_. So when she finds this recipe for [these cookies with these intricate bee designs](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/156332111773/sunkentowers-chickennoodlepoodle-i-love-bees) she’s like, I HAVE to do this Sherlock will never expect it it’ll be so much better than getting him another pair of socks. And she chooses to do it on the third anniversary of him being sober (after his relapse) just because. She knows he’d rather have something thoughtful than something he sees as meaningless that puts an obligation on him like the tokens do.

And she doesn’t get in above her head - she makes a practice batch first, at Lin’s place so Sherlock won’t find out. When she comes home with just a bit of flour on the collar of her blouse Sherlock asks if she was baking something and Joan makes up this lie about helping Lin with some basic sugar cookies for her coworkers.

So when she finally makes the second batch for Sherlock she feels really confident with them. She makes sure Sherlock will be out of the house for a few hours (Alfredo is in on it) and it’s late evening when he finally returns and the cookies are done. From the kitchen, Joan hears Sherlock enter the brownstone and he eventually finds her there, where she has the finished cookies displayed without ceremony, her quietly doing dishes as he walks in.

“Happy anniversary,”she says, her back still to him as he enters the kitchen, and she hears his footsteps pause as he catches sight of her gift. There’s a long stretch of silence. She turns to see him in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the cookies, his eyes darting quickly as he consumes the level of detail.

“I once told you that I viewed eating as ritualization-slash-fetishization,” he says, his voice soft, still looking at the cookies.

“You did,” she says, wiping her hands dry, studying his stiff profile.

“You also said it was an egregious waste of time, if I remember correctly,” she adds, no amount of judgment in her voice. She can see in his shoulders he’s gearing up for something that is very difficult for him to say.

“I hope you know my opinion has changed since then.” He finally looks at her, his mouth a tight line, his hands in fists. She gives him a soft smile. 

He goes to study the cookies, picking one up, putting it down, picking up another.

“You even did _osmia avosetta_ ,” he whispers, picking up a particular cookie, placing it flat in his palm, and holding it up close to his face. 

“Well, I knew a generic bee cookie wouldn’t satisfy you,” she says, her smile growing.

“Thank you, Watson,” he says, letting his true emotions show in his voice. She comes to stand next to him, leans against the table, one hand on her hip. 

“You’re going to eat it, aren’t you? I didn’t make them for decoration,” she says, pushing his hand holding the cookie close to his mouth, her eyes laughing at him.

He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. She raises her brows at him.

He raises his brows back. “Is that my honey?”

Finally she grins. “You noticed.”

“How could I not?” he says, his mouth still full. 

She laughs aloud, and picks up a cookie of her own. It is, of course, _euglassia watsonia._


	2. Sharing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to a prompt lesbxdyke sent me on tumblr: [ “I think I’ve had enough cookies for two years… Wait is that pie?”](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/157511143838/i-think-ive-has-enough-cookies-for-two-years)
> 
> This takes place between 3x04 and 3x11…well, perhaps at whatever point it’s coldest between those episodes lol.

Joan had left her apartment as early as she could, hoping to catch Kitty and Sherlock at the brownstone perusing cold cases in such a horrible blizzard, rather than trying to pursue any killers still at large. She’d texted Sherlock and Kitty to let them know she was coming with a surprise. Neither of them answered, which was no surprise at all.

She let herself into the brownstone, carefully holding one foil-wrapped dessert in the crook of her left arm, grasping the second in her left hand, and fiddling her keys out of the lock with her right.

The front hallway was dim, as it usually was during the day, but Joan caught a glimpse of firelight from the library.

“Hello!” she called out, not expecting an immediate answer. The brownstone was huge, and if no one had heard her enter, she would have to search them out.

Tucking her keys into her coat pocket, she took the one dessert out of the crook of her arm to hold with her right hand, and made her way through the library and lock room. No one. Sherlock was either in the media room or the basement—the main floor was most often used for current casework.

But she found Kitty in the kitchen, making a cold cut sandwich for herself. Having made sure to step on the stairs heavily to further announce her presence, Joan didn’t catch Kitty by surprise, but she did look perplexed. Then she spied Joan’s foil-wrapped gifts and groaned.

“I think I’ve had enough cookies for two years…”

Joan raised a single eyebrow and set the desserts on the kitchen table.

“Wait is that pie?” Kitty stepped closer, her eyes glued to the dessert closest to her, seemingly forgetting the ham sandwich she’d just made right behind her.

Joan laughed. “Sherlock told you, didn’t he? I love making pies.”

“No, he… I’m so sorry, you look frozen. Do you want some coffee?” Kitty said, finally looking to Joan’s face and seeing her bright red nose and the snow still melting on her hair and shoulders.

Joan sniffed once and laughed again. “Please. Does Sherlock still keep my cream here?”

Kitty hummed her assent, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and going to the coffee machine to make a fresh pot. “I got your text. What did you make?”

As Kitty turned to look at her, Joan smirked, answering her with another question. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“In the—”

Kitty was interrupted by Sherlock’s loud footsteps banging up the basement stairs, just before he burst into the kitchen, his chest heaving excitedly against the buttons of his shirt.

“Watson,” he said, both hands in fists at his sides, an eagerness in his eyes she was surprised to realize she missed. “I smell apple.”

“You do,” she said, her smile widening at him.

A soft gasp sounded behind her. Joan turned to see Kitty peeking into one of the dishes, her eyes wide. “Who told you banana cream was my favorite?” Kitty said, taking the rest of the foil off to reveal the creamy concoction beneath. Sherlock breezed past Joan to pour coffee, for himself and for her, she noticed peripherally.

Joan blushed slightly, but trusted the lingering cold in her skin concealed it. “No one actually. I just know you love banana smoothies. And, well, I’ve made them for you so many times, I thought you’d like the pie version too.”

Kitty turned to look at her, and Joan was dismayed to see tears in the young woman’s eyes. Before she knew it Kitty was hugging her. Joan tentatively returned the hug, catching the scent of Kitty’s shampoo and the subtle perfume she used that always reminded Joan of cherry blossoms.

“No one’s made me a dessert for…for so long,” Kitty whispered to her, slowly backing out of the hug, sniffling self-consciously, turning half away from Joan.

Sherlock had set their two mugs of coffee on the table, and now handed small plates to Kitty to give her something to do. Wise. Joan gave him a small smile of gratitude.

“What was that about having had enough of cookies for two years then?” Joan asked, making her tone light as she shrugged off her coat and draped it over a chair. Sherlock had already laid out silverware, and was now peeling back the foil on the apple pie as if it was a Christmas present and he was eight years old.

“Oh,” Kitty gave a soft laugh, sitting down and staring intently at the empty plate in front of her. “That’s Sherlock’s fault.”

“What?” Sherlock spoke with his mouth already full of pie. He was eating standing up, as he often did.

“He’s got a new coping mechanism. Instead of Yorkshire pudding he’s baking cookies now. I won’t let him throw them away,” Kitty explained, not even looking at Sherlock. She gifted Joan with one of her conspiratorial smiles, even though tears were still shinning in her eyes.

“We give some to Marcus and the Captain,” Sherlock said, after swallowing this time. But he immediately put another spoonful of apple pie in his mouth, chewing happily.

“And not me because…?” Joan raised her brows at Sherlock who raised his brows back, refusing to speak with his mouth full now.

“They’re not…always very good,” Kitty said, holding up her plate when she saw Joan was cutting the first piece of banana cream pie for her. Joan held back a laugh, and glanced at Sherlock. He didn’t look at all offended. He was going to eat himself into a food coma if he wasn’t careful.

Joan finally sat and began enjoying her coffee. Sherlock had put just the right amount of cream in it. The brownstone kitchen settled into an easy silence, while the warmth steadily crept back into Joan’s limbs.


	3. Gingerbread Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally an ask meme response for beanarie, posted [here](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/158879906283/also-51-ginger-bread-people-are-very-serious). Includes a reference to the dollhouse victims mentioned in 5x16. ;)

Joan’s clicking heels preceded her as she walked toward the library, so she knew Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised by her approach. It was 2am and they’d been on this case without any real sleep for over 30 hours. Sherlock likely hadn’t slept for 48, and he was beginning to have delayed reactions to everything she said or did. She’d had to forcefully take his fifth cup of coffee out of his hands and tell him to take a nap about six hours ago. He’d slept for 45 minutes. 

The case was a triple murder, with severed limbs involved and a partner to the murderer they couldn’t trace. Still at large. She had been spending the last couple hours online looking for clues the partner may have left behind on social media, and was coming to deliver her findings to Sherlock. 

Instead of finding him poring over the photos from the case file as she’d left him, she saw him crouched cross-legged on the floor over a crime scene model of his own making. That in itself was nothing new. It was the…contents of the model that gave her pause. 

“Are those my gingerbread cookies?” she said, stopping next to him, her eyes going from the mismatched crime scene model to his fatigued yet determined expression. 

“Yes,” he said, his tone clipped with tired irritation. She stood patiently, waiting for him to elaborate. He glanced up to her raised eyebrows and finally continued with a brief sigh. “I needed models for the severed limbs, and I did not feel inclined to permanently damage our dollhouse victims.”

“Ah, I see.” She had to hold back her smile, knowing if she didn’t he’d be able to hear it in her voice and only become more cross.

“The gingerbread people are very serious, Watson!” he exclaimed suddenly, punctuating his words with sharp stabbing motions of his hands toward the miniature crime scene before him. “I need to know the placement of each limb to better determine how the accomplice moved through the house.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she said, turning away to settle on the couch so he wouldn’t see her smirk. 

When she turned back to look at him, preparing to deliver her findings, he was holding an intact gingerbread cookie out to her. She took it with a smile that he barely looked at—his mind still nearly entirely absorbed by the case—but she noticed in the tin next to him there were only three gingerbread cookies left. She had made eight times that number only yesterday. 


	4. Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half headcanon, half fic...I have a habit of turning headcanons into scenes. Originally in response to a prompt from foxy-mulder, posted [ here](http://joaneuglassiawatson.tumblr.com/post/160167346603/tea).

Joan’s Chinese tea takes on a monumental role she never anticipated, after it proves its worth to Sherlock by curing his cold. Sherlock was not the type to outright admit he valued her sole contributions to their partnership. Instead Joan figured out his sudden interest in Chinese herbs through his purchases.

At first it was just a few extra herbs in their cabinet she knew she hadn’t bought. Then it was the multitude of used tea bags she found scattered in various containers around the brownstone. At first it was two in the basement, one in the bathroom. Then it was five in a single night, and Joan told Sherlock she was not his maid, would not clean up after him, and soon after she stopped seeing used tea bags altogether.

Then it was the search history. Just out of curiosity after a few days without a case, Joan decided to see what Sherlock had been looking up, thinking there might be a new case hidden in there somewhere he hadn’t spotted. But instead of news stories, she found search after search about medicinal herbs and traditional Chinese healing practices. She left the search history as it was and said nothing to him, but the very next day she noticed more new herbs in the kitchen cabinets.

But after that weeks passed by without incident. Then Joan got sick—the first cold she’d ever had while living in the brownstone. She woke up with a sore throat and a mild fever, and had to tell Sherlock she couldn’t go to the crime scene with him. He frowned in what she thought was disappointment, and said he would check in on her later that afternoon. Even asked her if she had the medicine she needed. She told him yes, and he left. Honestly feeling rather sleep-deprived after so many cases in short succession, Joan chose to take cold medicine that would put her back to sleep and stayed in bed for the next four hours.

It was Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs that woke her. Groggily she raised her head, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and swallowed painfully. The medicine was definitely wearing off.

Before she could do more than sit up Sherlock was in her room, a tray in his hands. He gave her that small smile-grimace she took for an expression of sympathy, before asking after her welfare. All she could get out was she had slept, before she motioned vaguely to her throat and he nodded understanding. Then he set down the tray.

A warmth that she was still getting used grew in her chest at the sight. A bowl of chicken noodle soup and a mug of tea that smelled strangely familiar. She took up the tea first and sipped. Her eyes widened.

Sherlock stood stalk straight next to her bed, and looked at her flabbergasted expression with one raised eyebrow.

“This is the tea I made you!” she said, the words coming out with less force than she would want. She took another soothing sip of the tea, still looking at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“Ah, yes, I learned to make it,” he said, his eyes darting away from her face. His right hand was fidgeting, thumb running over his knuckles over and over again.

“You learned—” Joan’s voice broke painfully, and after taking a third sip of tea she carefully set the mug back on the tray.

“Last month you mother’s tea proved very useful. I wanted to replicate the results, so I began researching,” Sherlock continued to explain, as Joan rearranged her covers and brought the tray closer to her. She set the mug of tea on her nightstand and tested the temperature of the soup. Still too hot. She took up the tea again, holding the mug with both hands, her thoughts still jumbled with amazement.

“Not that I expected you to get sick, Watson,” Sherlock said, both hands in fists now. She gave him a small smile over the mug still raised to her lips.

“Why didn’t you just ask me how it was made?” she said, suspecting she knew the answer.  

He was studying some inconsequential detail in the pattern of her comforter. “I was rude in how I initially reacted to your mother’s remedy. I felt it was best I pursue knowledge on the subject independently.”

Joan hummed thoughtfully, her smile growing. He finally turned to look at her, frowning at what was now an almost Cheshire cat grin at him.

“Well, now that your first experiment has proved a success,” Joan said, pausing to clear her throat and take another sip of tea. “Why don’t you let me teach you more remedies when I’m feeling better?”

He looked away, his frown fading somewhat, and gave a small nod. “Rest as long as you need, Watson. I will update you on the case on the morrow. I leave the media room at your disposal.”

He’d clasped his hands tightly behind his back, and now he gave a sharp turn before exiting.

Still smiling as his steps retreated downstairs, Joan began taking a mental inventory of what teas she could teach him to make next, based on the ingredients he’d already shoved not-so-subtlety into their cabinets.


End file.
